The Looney Tunes Show: Dilly Dilly STDaffy (Lost Episode)
Dilly Dilly! Science may never explain the origins of it. On second thought, sorry, that was a stupid statement. f***ing ringing in my ears. Seabiscuit. Dilly Dilly has appeared in Bud Light television commercials all across the globe, culminating in a set of Super Bowl specialty ads customized for fans of both teams. The phrase caught on ASAP, like flies to festive, delicious honey, but you know this already: there's no way that you don't. Everyone in your family has said the phrase time and time again, by now. Your mother, your father, your cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents. It's a regular ol' 'full house' of the stuff. 'Dilly Dilly', indeed...
As for me, I live in a dumpster. It isn't optimal, but it has a lid and the trash man knows--s***, I mean trash PERSON, sorry--knows that I'm in there, so he doesn't compact me or crush me alive or anything. Kind of a nice guy. One night, while I was using a discarded ugly Randolph the Christmas Reindeer sweater as a warmer... I realized something. A DVD? ... No, never mind, it was just a coaster. Oh well. Disgruntled and disheveled, I went back to sleep.
Five hours later (don't ask me how--I read the sun for time), I was awoken by the force of blunt object. I rummaged through the pockets of my thrift store cardigan, ripped out my trustworthy Buddy Holly glasses, and, in stylish perusal... I noticed it then and there. Size 69, puce-and-blue, marmalade smears, Fat Albert is a real man and he's buried alive in Grant's tomb. The naming label of the VHS tape said it all: "The Looney Tunes Show Episode 1990deadinside: Dilly Dilly STDaffy'.
Okay, at this point, I know what you're thinking: good groundhogs thrive in shallow holes. I brushed the rat feces off the VHS tape, ruminated about my ex-wife Bernice, and shoved the thing into a well-sewn cardigan pocket. I didn't entirely know why, given that, as a homeless person, there wasn't much I could do with a VHS tape. VHS tapes aren't edible, and furthermore: I didn't even own a frigging VCR! Perhaps I could pawn the tape for food, I thought. Use it to purchase a steak dinner. Maybe even see a show. "The only show you'll be seeing is untimely death, Erdrick.", the voice inside my head threatened me. O, cruel fate! I gave my inner voice the finger and hopped, skipped, and jumped my way to the local Walmart, optimistic and drunken off of Bud Light. Dilly Dilly!
"Sir, you're homeless. f*** off before I call the cops", the potchmarked teenage usher cracked in a prepubescent voice. Knowing when I've been defeated, I turned around to depart until... until he saw it. In my pocket. "Nice cardigan.", the usher/greeter, Cobain, remarked. "I'll trade access to the store to you for it." Well, hot diggity dog! I ravenously tore the garment straight off my flesh, revealing that I was wearing nothing underneath. "Uh, never mind.", Mr. Cobain asserted in envy of my killer physique. "I'll just take the tape." Realizing a good deal when I sense one, being a retired car salesman and former Calvinist pastor, I tossed the tape to the man, refused to put my clothes back on, and merrily dabbed my way through the store. After stealing a pint of delicious Sam's Club pistachio and tide pod ice cream, I... I saw something that would change my life forever. So... horrible. So horrifying. So... sad.
Kurdt was dead. Highly realistic blood, guts, sinew, and skull littered the floor, as well as a discarded shotgun, pile of towels, and a note. "What. The f***.", I muttered to myself in awe. I didn't know how to read, so I picked up the note and had a customer service representative in home and garden decor read it off to me. "Don't watch the tape, Boddah.", he muttered under his breath. He stretched out his hand for a tip, but I spat a wad of Sam's Club toffee nut and okrah chewing gum, instead. "f*** you, Dolan.", I heard him mumble as I backed away, laughing to myself... and tripped. Over a VHS tape. That tape ...
Well, all I can really say is that I have a law degree from Trump University (mail-order--diploma received with a cardboard cutout of DJT munching on a taco bowl), and I was raging mad and ready to sue! I walked up to the Walmart manager, but he was too busy pouring sawdust on the corpse. Apparently that's how you clean up a dead body. Kind of strange, but whatever.
I wiped the blood off the Looney Tunes tape with a ply of Sam's Club brand toilet paper, and ruminated over the message from the departed. Why did he want the tape so badly to begin with? And what could have possibly been on the tape that was so bad that he would take his own wife, I mean cause his wife to murder him, I mean take his own life? Now, I don't know what you'd do in this situation, but for me, it was as easy as 1-2-3, and I ain't into 'new math'. I jammed the VHS tape back into my cardigan pocket, broke into the employee break room, and... well, this was odd. Unusual. Unkempt. There was an employee training video playing on screen, but I couldn't quite get myself to turn it off. A pale greenish, baby puke pyramid with a giant eye perused right into my soul, while I felt... strangely at home.
"Ah, s***, sorry.", the manager--who was nametag revealed to be Mr. Sam 'Club' Walton himself--volunteered, pulling the plug on the VCR. Hypnosis was a mild inconvenience for sure, but as he did apologize, I let him know that it was O.K., and invited him to some moldy jujyfruit that I kept in my back pocket. No longer under the ravenous clutches of Walmart brand mind control, I threw in the Looney Tunes tape, hit play, and smiled a wide, toothy grin, anticipating the slapstick antics of the anthropomorphic Warner Bros. characters that I grew up with back in the 1950s.
Now, if you've ever watched a Merry Melodies cartoon, you'd know that there's this 'dndndn dn-dn-dn-dn-dn, dn dn dn dnnnnn' tune that they tend to play as an intro, with the Warner Bros. WB logo presented as a zooming out shield of arms. But what I saw... was not the classic Looney Tunes theme song. It wasn't the classic Looney Tunes theme song at all. The characters...
Listen, I don't know if you've ever heard of the Lou Reed & Metallica 'LuLu' project, but it was a really wily thing. Lou Reed was a rock and roll elderstatesman who read poetry about himself as a female hooker over Metallica's trademark Black Sabbath heavy metal riffs, and the album was a huge hit in America, Canada, and Southern Madagascar. But I've gotta tell ya, that... ... that kind of music sounds more than a little strange when it's coming out of the mouth of Dr. Wile E. Coyote.
"A bird! A bird! I've been chasing a bird!
But how can they say that the bird is the word?
I'll flip you the bird, and tell you to f*** off.
There's a message in my alpha-bits, and it says 'f*** your mom'
Well I've done it, I'm dead, call me Oedipus Rex
I'm done chasing bird meat, I'd rather eat lead
I know that sounds drastic but riddle me this
f*** s*** ass piss dick f*** s***--"
What the... cursing? In a children's cartoon? I've lived for a pretty long time in my life, but cussing in a children's cartoon was foreign to me. The cartoon camera or whatever you call it zoomed in to the tip of Wile E. Coyote's nose, which was smeared in some sort of white powdery substance, before zooming in on his bulging, bloodshot eyes... and, finally, jagged, dark green, razorblade coyote teeth.
I let out a scream, but in a Walmart employee stockroom, no one can hear you scream. With no other choice but to continue watching the tape, I did just that.
As it turns out, 'The Looney Tunes Show' does star the legendary Warner Bros. mascot Bugs B. Bunny, and the eponymous Daffy D. Duck, but the manner in which they're presented is... strange. In this cartoon, they're roommates, and go through Seinfeld-style sitcom moments together. The tape began with clips of what I could only assume were past episodes.
As per usual, the meat of the episode began with Bugs, historically the Looney Tunes' central protagonist, as a stand-up comedian. He stepped up to the microphone, in front of an unseen audience, while they awaited his stand-up routine. Bugs let out a cough, and... well, he rolled his eyes as if he was dead. The audience burst out in laughter for some reason, while I took a bite of a kellogg's corn pop breakfast cereal bar that I stole from a disregarded aisle earlier.
Unfortunately, what I saw next wasn't in good taste, either.
"What's the big deal with smelly v******?", Bugs started. "I mean, really." Sounds of crickets chirping played, while I stared at the screen agape, chunks of half-eaten corn pop dangling out of my mouth. "Okay. Fine. Tough audience. Alright, docs: I've got the comedy store prescription for you." Bugs took out... a sawed-off shotgun? "As y'all motherfuckers know, I'm a cartoon character and can't die from a shotgun blast." Bugs paused. He grinned a widened, toothful grin that made me yelp in terror. Normal people didn't smile like that. "I'm going to need...", his pupils gyrated, symbolizing motion, as if he was looking through the audience. "A volunteer." Within seconds, a fat, bald, big-nosed douchebag wearing a trademark fedora (his favorite) came up to the stage. As a fan of the golden era Warner Bros. motion picture cartoons, I immediately recognized him as the backwoods hunter Elmer Fudd. "That'll do, Doc." Bugs Bunny handed Mr. Fudd the gun, and Elmer did that thing with his eyebrows that perverted gentiles do when they're going to commit adultery. Difference was: Elmer was about to feed his bloodlust.
Now, believe me, disbelieve me, whatever, but Elmer Fudd straight up... he straight up fucking shot Bugs Bunny right in his fucking furry rabbit face. Bugs Bunny's head exploded while chunks of various photo-realistic rabbit-man extremities flew into the cartoon camera and I let out a shrill shriek of terrifying horror. This was not, COULD not, be a real episode of the Looney Tunes! Greatly disturbed and hoping to go on my 'personal 15' so that I could use the bathroom, I called in the manager to complain. "I pulled the plug on the VCR, you fucking idiot." Great: a non-sequitur. Good for nothing Scrooge...
I flipped him the finger, quit my job, and put my cardigan back on. I was deeply and profoundly offended by the tape and Mr. Walton's misbehavior, and figured that my business was best taken elsewhere. I went to the bathroom (in aisle) and swiped a few toothbrushes and a vat of singing toothpaste before picking up a chair from the furniture department and walking out with it. As the greeter was dead--if you've been following along like a good boy, you'd know that, but who the fuck knows with you--no one cared about the stolen goods, and the metal detector had been removed so that they could dispose of the body without risking the thing going off from a gold tooth or something. I picked up a pint of expired milk from the defectives bin and chugged before tossing the thing all over the floor and picking up the big, red corded phone that they use for requests and complaints from impatient customers. "Clean up on Aisle 7!", I joked before belching and hanging up, spitting milk all over the telephone receiver. I wiped my mouth with a Sam's Choice towel before heading out through the back door.
The walk back 'home' was mostly pleasant. A sunglasses-wearing teenaged boy on a skateboard told me to go fuck a chair, but as that wasn't very clever, I shrugged and kept on carrying the thing en route to my special, weshle little dumpster. When I finally made it back to my 'house' I planted the thing on the sidewalk, pulled my back, and realized, in horror, that I left the tape back at the Walmart employee stockroom. What if someone else saw the tape and was deluded into an untimely, self-imposed death!?
Good thing I care about nobody else but myself.
I let out a chuckle. "Guess I'm gonna solve the world's population problem.", I grimaced, grabbing the top of my dumpster and chucking myself in. Now, when I do this, I normally land softly on some trash bags, banana peels, or used feminine hygiene products, but this time, something firm and strangely warm was...
Oh, no. Oh, no. No, no, no, no... No. No. No. It... it wasn't just any strange, firm, warm thing that was situated under me. It was a body. A dead body. A corpse. With... sawdust sprinkled on top of it. I flew open the dumpster top for light and, to my shock, horror, and bewilderment... Cobain! The headless, bloodied, freshly sawdusted corpse of Cobain was lying in my dumpstrous home like the horse's head from Godfather Part 32! But what could this all mean? ... Was there time to wonder what this could all mean? People would think that I murdered Kurt Cobain! I let out a gasp, bit my lip, rubbed my lip after realizing that I left a mark, and picked up Cobain's corpse and tossed it right out of the dumpster. A right-foot pinky toe fell out and rolled off the sidewalk and into the street like a lonesome chicken finger, but who gives a s***? Well, apparently, the neighbors did, because I heard a scream. In my disheveled calamity, I had forgotten to realize that putting the body out there in public would make it seem more likely that I myself was the killer! Unwilling to wait for the pigs (cops are pigs) to arrive, arrest me, and try me for murder, I jumped out of the dumpster, accidentally stepping on KC's hobo jacket. I heard a crunch, which made me realize... he may have had something worthwhile in his pocket. Even though I had eaten pilfered Walmart goods earlier, I was self-diagnosed diabetic, so I was hungry again and hoping that the dead man was carrying with him some delicious Fritos corn chips--and, hopefully, a can of sprite would be nearby.
But no. Upon my investigation, it was... .... I know you won't believe me, and that's O.K. because you probably think 2 + 2 = 5, but there it was. The Looney Tunes Show VHS tape! The foot crunching had only taken off an outer piece that wouldn't keep it from still fitting into a VCR. Someone had jammed the Looney Tunes VHS tape in the greeter's jacket. But... why?
Blue and red lights flashed, while a morbidly obese woman (I judged people by their weight, so sue me Mr. Phoenix Wright) pointed her finger at me from a fourth-story apartment window and shouted 'There he is, officer! There he is! He murdered the American icon, Tom!'. I managed to hold back a holler, which would have drawn extra unwarranted attention to my person, and made a sprint down an alleyway, hopping over a picketfence, and into a long neglected junkyard. An also morbidly obese, chocolate-skinned kid called me over. "Hey, hey, hey!", he screamed. "Try this on! They'll never catch you! They'll think you're a whole other person!". Exhausted and delirious from my fifteen seconds of fast-paced running, I threw on the curly, red haired wig. This changed my perception of overweight people, so I thanked the young man and proffered him a single glob of singing toothpaste as a reward.
Even with my clever disguise, I knew that I had to stay out of sight and out of mind. Perusing the junkyard for abandoned cars to hide in, I discovered a raggedy, rusted-looking, wood-boarded shack--with one open window. Clutching my wig so as not to return to my old self, I hopped in before looking, expecting nothing but dry air, disheveled mice, and asbestos. Instead... there was a desk. And a Zenith, boob-tube style, golden years era television. And a VCR. I stared back and forth at the VCR and the Looney Tunes tape like Laurence and Hardy or Abbot and Costanza or some other silent era comedy act. This had to have been destiny. And I was destiny's child. Fittingly, I decided that my new red-haired-person name would be Beyoncus (male version of Beyonce). Beyoncus slammed the tape into the VCR, hit the play button, and braced for the remainder of the show.
You know how people tend to think about how their life hasn't always been easy? That's me, I guess, but at the same time, I know that many have it worse. What I do in times of excessive stress is eat, or perhaps play with my balls, but now felt like neither the time nor place for either one. Now, the next scene to meet my eyes was... an oddball, to say the least. The dwarf-heighted redneck cowboy character with a deep southern accent, Yosemite Sam, was sitting on one of those doctor office table bed things that they put a thin, papery sheet on top of. "Give it tah mah straight, Doc...", Sam asked, sorrow in his eyes. "What ah gots is..." "Epidymitis.", the doctor responded. "It's when your balls get so twisted that there's torsion. It's amazing that your pain level is only a 7 out of 10. In extreme cases, they need to remove at least one of your balls." "Well ain't that just shootin' jack rabbits.", Yosemite responded before...
Okay. f*** this. I don't want to even say it. It's disgusting. It's disturbing. It makes me wish that I never learned what a cartoon was. But it happened, and I'm not gonna lie. Yosemite Sam shot himself in the balls. With his gun. Crimson red liquid squirted out of Yosemite Sam's testicular region while I gaped at the screen in horror. This was disgusting. I know I said it before, but really. f*** this s***. It might be funny if you're a woman and don't know what it's like to have aching balls, but this is horrible. I rammed my hand into the VCR's tape slot, and was ready to yank the sucker out until I saw... something that I simply was not ready for. The next scene. The Tasmanian Devil was at the grocery store checkout line. Taz looked around confused, and agitated that 12 people were in front of him. "BEH!!!?!?", Taz alerted. "I guess we'll just have to wait our turn, son.", his down-to-earth father suggested. "FRIZZLE FRIZ A FREK!?", Taz blurted out, like a disruptive child with a terrible disorder. "No reason to get feisty, son. We just gotta wait." Taz looked... displeased. He tapped his finger on the candy rack of the checkout aisle. Then he spat on the ground. Then... even his normally mild-mannered father got pissed. "You need to keep your manners, son.", Taz Dad asserted through gritted teeth. The scene changed to Taz lying in bed, overhearing his mother and father talk smack about him. "I think our son's r-worded.", Taz's mother suggests. "Oh, nonsense, dear. He's just got some growin' up to do. He'll catch up with the other boys, someday." The look on Taz's face, while he clenches his bedsheet and thinks the situation over, is heartbreaking. It isn't that he looks sad, or that he's about to cry. It's just... firm. Palefaced. You could tell that Taz didn't know how to handle the criticism from his maternal and paternal parental units. Taz stayed up all night, clenched his stuffed dinosaur with his eyes open, as darkness turned to dawn turned to time-for-school. The scene changed to Taz in the principal's office, with his parents called in, while his teacher showed them various doodles he had been drawing during science class. The teacher and a noose, the teacher and an explosion, the teacher and a pencil jammed between her teeth while a beaver chews on her and eats her alive... you know the drill. Taz gets expelled, while his mother and father cry.
I could never have been ready for the scene that followed. Not in 100 million billion gazillion years. Taz was at church, wolfing down all of the communion wafers and drinking all of the wine AND grape juice before belching. "That's it! OUT OUT OUT!!!", the preacher yelled, tossing the Tasmanian Devil out on his furry ass. That was a strange scene for a children's cartoon, but what made matters worse... listen, I feel bad for telling you this, but get ready. Be prepared. Because... because...
Taz came back. With a tank. And a grenade. Guns. Ammo. A missile. And he spun...
... and he spun. Inside the church. And as he spun... the force. Like a tornado. Like a hurricane. He killed... he killed. Arms flying. Legs in the air. He killed all of those poor, innocent people. And then he took out his assault rifle, and he... he shot the preacher in the face. Blood, guts, bone, sinew, skull pieces, and pieces of pages from the Joseph Smith translation Bible. This was... this was too much. I let out an angry scream and aroused police sirens within seconds, but I didn't care. They could come and get me for all I cared. But who they should have been really arresting... who they really should have been arresting was whoever made this horrible, horrible Looney Tunes lost episode VHS tape.
The scene changed one more time. It was a stage, with various podiums. Daffy Duck, Lola Bunny, Speedy Gonzales, the gophers, Sylvester Cat, Tweety Bird, Foghorn Leghorn, Pepe LePew, Petunia Pig, the Roadrunner. They're all there. All of them. And they're all...
... running for President? "But first.", Speedy begins, "Leet's deespel with thees feection that Beaky Buzzard doesn't know what hee's doeeng. He knows..." "There's that mesmerized 40-second Hollywood speech again!", Sylvester asserts, while his supporters applaud. The fuck was this? "Well, I...", Pepe begins. "Shut the fuck up", Daffy responds. "I'll annul your delegates and deport you back where you were born, Frenchie." ... The fuck. Was. This? "Well, ah say, ah say!", Foghorn interjects. "Protectin' 2nd Amendment rights is a Constitutional requirement of a Senator! And as a Senator of mah native state of--"
Suddenly, there was an audible gun shot. Heard. Then multiple, audible, gun shots. Heard. Then... some really shitty stillshot animation. But not just animation. Claymation. All of the characters turned into clay. Red clay. Blood red clay. That melted. Into puddles. Of clay.
All of the Looney Tunes... all of the Looney Tunes were dead.
I got it now. I finally got it now. At first, I thought it was all an editorial on the decay in the quality of the Looney Tunes brand in an attempt to reach today's kids, but no. Well, yes, it was about reaching today's kids, but it wasn't about a sharp decline in quality that involves looney tunes as comedians or babies or basketball players. It was about change. It was about changing the law. Enforcing new laws. These animators... these animators were out to save the world. A pitiful world. Our world. And if Hollywood had any power, any sway at all... they could do it quickly. At a young age. They could mold young minds. They could save lives.
My eyes were widened like saucers. The tape hit static, as it was at an end. I ejected it. Grabbed it. I jumped out the window, getting cut up and bloodied and bruised from the nails of the splintered wooden boards. But I just didn't care anymore. Tape firmly in hand, I ran, and I ran. Empowered by the spirit of the Looney Tunes' sociopolitical prowess, I supernaturally held my stamina and made it past my dumpster, over the greeter corpse, javelined my middle-aged body over my stolen chair... and eventually, I was back at Walmart.
I rang the counter bell. "I demand service!", I screamed. The lady cashier stared at me like I was fucking nuts before offering me a cigarette, which I declined for conscientious as well as health-related reasons. Finally... he came back. Mr. Walton, with a balled up fist and angry brow. And he was... he was pissed. "I see that you stole my tape.", he began. "Now hand it back to me before I conveniently lock it in a vault that no one can ever open, while you narrate your story to handfuls or dozens of jewel-eyed miscreants on the Internet, none of whom will ever believe you!" He expected me to fight back with words, but all I had was an object. The Looney Tunes VHS tape. Channeling my inner John Rocker, I fastballed it right into Mr. Walton's skull.
Sam Walton exploded. His innards rained on me like Nickelodeon slime, but I didn't care. I had saved the world from gun violence. That was the most important thing.
Or so it was to me. In all honesty, the police arrived shortly afterward, since the cashier phoned the cops, probably concerned about losing her job due to her boss being popped like a balloon by a VHS tape, or some s***. The officers cuffed me, though curiously enough, they took me to a white, padded room instead of the downtown precincts. They didn't even ask me much of any questions. Some tall, muscular guy wrapped me in a jacket that I had no idea how to get out of, and they tossed me in the can. From what I gather, gun violence is still a thing, and nothing has changed, despite all of my hard work and manslaughter... I hope this letter finds you. I wrote it with my own blood, biting into my own flesh to produce a medium to write with, using pieces of jacket as paper. My carrier pigeon anxiously awaits her cargo. Washington, D.C., I understand that you're slow to change, and that when new faces get voted in, they're quick to change spots and become just like who's already been in there. But please... drain the swamp. Change the laws. Before it's all too late. Before the children have no more beloved cartoon characters to grow up on. And every musical icon shoots himself in the head. In the meanwhile, I suppose I'm just a man, alone, with his thoughts. And a curly, red wig. But no amount of television-based commercialization could change my own personality and way of life, I can tell you that much. Not even with all of the f***ed up s*** I've seen and lived through.
What I'd do for a Bud Light, right now...
Dilly dilly.
The end.
YouTube reading
Credited to DaveTheUseless
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